I'll Go With You
by lemoncakelady
Summary: A GoT/ASOIAF Throbb fic from Theon's POV in which Theon never captures Winterfell. The story covers moments between Theon and Robb from before the War of Five Kings all the way through the Red Wedding. The story draws mainly upon the show canon, in which Robb is aged up, and Theon isn't. How far will Theon go for his best friend? How far will he go with him?
1. Part I: Dark Waters

Part I: Dark Waters

Theon wondered whether it was strange to dream in memories, to live each over and over and paint them in colors of dusk. He knew men who claimed to dream of the future, but his own dreams were riddled with ghosts of the past. In his first few months at Winterfell, he dreamt only of the sea, and still, as the years wore on and his dreams took him elsewhere, images of Pyke continued to haunt him— how the dark waters had seemed to burn when Robert Baratheon's forces attacked, how the bodies had piled up on the shore, the night air filled with the screams of dying men, _his_ men.

But the good dreams were somehow more haunting. Theon thought often and longingly of the towers of Pyke, how they'd loom proudly on gray days, its high bridges swaying treacherously in the wind. Once, Theon had loved to race across them, fearless, bold, young, while the foaming sea below churned and crashed against the jagged rocks. Theon missed the sea more than anything— the cool, slick feel of coursing through the water and the taste of salt on his lips. It had been five years since Ned Stark had taken Theon from his home, and five years since Theon had laid eyes upon the sea.

He'd just been about to slip beneath the waves again when the distant sounds of wood striking wood woke him. Bleary-eyed and grumbling, Theon stumbled to his window to see what the commotion was all about. Robb and the bastard Jon Snow were sparring with practice swords in the yard below.

"Do they have to practice so bloody early?" Theon mumbled to himself as he dressed, although he knew it was he who had slept late— it had been a good dream today. Good dreams had a way of sucking him in, making him stay beneath the waves awhile longer.

By the time Theon reached the courtyard, Snow had raced off after little Arya, and Robb was leaning against one of the castle walls, gulping water ravenously. Sweat beaded his forehead and darkened his auburn curls. It was a hot summer day— well, hot for Winterfell at least. Theon had been grateful to discover that Winterfell wasn't quite the perpetually frozen wasteland he'd originally imagined it to be.

"Bested Snow this time?" Theon asked, leaning against the wall beside Robb.

Robb shrugged, taking another long pull from his skin.

"Well, you sent him running, it seems," said Theon.

"We're a fair match," Robb replied mildly, though Theon had seen the bastard boy yield from the ground, while Robb stood over him. But that was Robb— never one to boast, though he had ample reason to.

"Fair match, my ass," Theon said, grinning.

Robb just shook his head, but a smile crept at the corner of his lips, and Theon felt his own grin broadening.

"Gods, it's hot," said Robb.

"You look like you could use a swim," Theon said.

Robb turned to him, incredulous. "A swim?" he asked. "We're hundreds of miles from the sea, and we'd drown if we tried swimming in the river."

" _You_ might," said Theon. He yawned, stretched, and then started across the courtyard. "But we're not going to the river," he said, without so much as a glance back toward Robb.

Just as Theon knew he would, Robb followed.

"Where then?" the younger boy asked when he caught up, curls bouncing.

"You'll just have to see," Theon replied. His grin was crooked, toothy.

Robb rolled his eyes but continued to follow Theon anyway. When they reached the gates of the godswood, Robb stopped in his tracks.

"You don't mean to take me to that little pool by the weirwood?" he asked.

"It's deeper than you think," Theon said, opening the gate and beckoning Robb in.

Theon led Robb to the heart tree, though the latter knew his way around the godswood better than most. Before the great weirwood lay a shimmering black pool. Theon wished there was a bigger lake in the godswood, or that he had the freedom to go seek one elsewhere, but there was only this pathetic little pool. It was deep enough to get a decent dive in, though— far better than nothing at all.

Robb paused before the heart tree, studying that unsettling face etched into its ashen trunk. Bark as white as bone, leaves as red as blood. The tree made Theon uneasy to behold; the very sight of it made his skin prickle and his hair stand on end. It was here, beside this pool, that Lord Stark cleaned his longsword after executions. _Someday it may be my blood he cleans off that sword, after he's taken my head,_ thought Theon. _And what will you do then, Robb? Will you be the one who unsheathes his sword for him? Will you help clean the stains of me off Ice before this very tree if the time comes? Or will you grieve for me? Will my head leave my shoulders in your dreams each night?_

Theon shuddered, but he made himself smile. It came to him as easily as breathing now.

"You Starks are a grim lot," he said to Robb, who still seemed to be contemplating the heart tree. "I came here to have some fun."

Theon began to strip, taking everything off, from his boots to his smallclothes. Robb followed suit, no longer preoccupied by the heart tree. For a moment, the boys just stood there regarding one another, pale and wild and bare, two heathens kissed by the sun of the godswood.

Robb, though nearly two years younger, was already burlier than Theon. He was broad of shoulder for his age, and supple; he'd grow to be strong as an ox someday. _And someday he'll be Lord of Winterfell_ , thought Theon, _and what's to become of me?_ Theon discarded the thought as quickly as he'd discarded his garments.

Where Robb was husky and strong, Theon was lean, corded, and quick. He slipped into the water without a word, making sure to send a splash Robb's way.

The coolness of the water felt good against his bare skin. As Theon worked his way down to the bottom of the pool, he felt smooth, graceful, and free. It was a strange feeling, freedom. Strange and wonderful. Here he felt like a Greyjoy. He felt as if he didn't need air at all. He could spend the rest of his life here, and he wouldn't ever need to breathe again. By the time his hand skimmed the gritty bed of the pool— about forty feet down, he guessed— Theon's ears rang, and his head felt empty. He made his way back up to the surface of the pool, the morning light barely discernible through the murk of the water. The air tasted sweet and warm when he broke the surface, and his head spun.

Near the edge of the pool, Robb was thrashing in the water, slipping beneath the surface.

"Seven hells," said Theon, before taking a big gulp of air and plunging below the black water once more. He darted swiftly to Robb, wrapped his arms around his waist, and pulled him ashore. Despite the coolness of the water clinging to his skin, Robb was warm, always warm. And he was breathing, heaving in fact, thank the Gods.

 _No_ , Theon told himself, _there is only one god, the Drowned God, and I mustn't let myself forget_.

Theon let go of Robb only when he'd managed to drag him a safe distance from the water's edge.

"What the fuck were you doing?" Theon asked, finding his feet.

"I— I thought— you— were drowning," Robb huffed between gasps of air. His thick hair was plastered to his face.

"I think you're the one we should be worrying about," Theon said. He knew that Robb was safe now, but he still felt hot with fear, and his heart hammered.

Robb leaned back against a large stone and stared up at the sky, seeming to savor his rattling breaths.

"You were down there so long I thought…I thought you must be dead," he said at last.

Theon laughed. "If I ever die from drowning, don't bother to weep for me, I deserved it then." I'm the last living son of Balon Greyjoy, he thought, saltwater courses through my veins, for the sea is my blood.

"Gods, I'm a shit swimmer," Robb blurted, breaking into a smile of his own. His cheeks crinkled up in that way Theon liked so much, and his teeth gleamed.

"Well, you're no liar," said Theon. It was never easy to find things Robb wasn't good at. Theon was proud to have found another. Any Ironborn boy of twelve who couldn't swim would be mocked for the rest of his life. Robb was lucky he hadn't grown up at Pyke.

"The pool is deeper than I thought. I didn't expect it to drop off right away," Robb admitted. He shivered. "It's colder than I expected too."

"You're the northman," Theon said with a shrug. He stepped back into the pool and let himself float on his back. "Besides, the sea's much colder than this, and leagues deeper too."

Neither boy spoke for some time. Theon felt as if he could fall asleep right there, on the surface of the pool, and wake up hours later without having moved. His eyelids were drooping when Robb broke the silence.

"You could teach me," he said quietly. "To swim, I mean."

Theon stroked lazily to the edge of the pool nearest the rock Robb had propped himself against. The Stark boy's blue eyes were meek, hopeful, and for a moment he looked younger than his twelve years, lordling that he was. Theon felt a warmth swell in his chest. He felt admired, important. It was an odd feeling.

"I suppose I could," he said with a shrug, trying his best to sound bored.

And then Robb smiled. He stumbled to the pool's edge with his arms out for balance, that stupid, giddy grin on his face, and Theon couldn't help but smile too, for real this time. Languid in the water, with his best friend beaming down at him, Theon felt, for the first time in years, as if he were home.


	2. Part II: Stain in the Snow

**Part II: Stain in the Snow**

 _Dark wings, dark words_ , Theon thought as the raven flew into the courtyard.

 _It's just a stupid saying,_ he told himself, nocking another arrow to his bow. _That old bat Nan is practically mad_. But the sight of that black shadow in the sky sent chills down his spine. Any raven that flew into Winterfell could carry news that his father had rebelled again. But Theon was Lord Greyjoy's last living son, a hostage for good behavior, and now a prisoner of seven years. His father wouldn't dare rebel again, would he?

Theon drew his arrow and loosed it in one fluid motion. The clean, sharp sound it made when it struck its target, right in the center, brought a smirk to Theon's face. He could almost _feel_ it piercing the sack of straw.

Soon enough, Lord Stark was striding into the courtyard, flanked by Ser Rodrik and Jory Cassel, and his men were readying horses. There was to be a beheading— a thief, Theon seemed to remember. In truth, it didn't matter to Theon what the man had done; he only knew that he had to be present when the man's sentence was carried out. It was Lord Stark's duty to inflict the punishment, though he never seemed to like it very much. _I hope he mislikes like taking my head, if it comes to that_ , Theon thought. _I hope I haunt him until his last day_.

Theon had the great honor of riding beside Lord Stark himself, with Jory Cassel at his other side. Robb reined in his gray gelding at his father's heels. Gods, he was perfect. He'd always been so perfect— heir to Winterfell, eldest son, a little Lord in training. But at fourteen, Robb was now far from little. He'd grown tall and was burlier than ever, the shadow of a beard creeping upon his face, coming in redder than his auburn curls.

 _You have fire in you, Stark_ , thought Theon. _Don't let all that snow up here put it out_. Robb's face was drawn in a hard line like his father's, solemn with the weight of his duty. Theon liked it much better when he smiled. Maybe Lord Eddard had smiled too when he was young, but Theon found it hard to believe. His noble Lord captor had never graced him with a smile. Jon Snow rode with them as well, also unsmiling. But that was nothing new; the bastard always looked sullen.

Beyond the great walls of Winterfell, there was nothing to protect them from the wind. It bit at Theon, chilling him to the bone. It tousled Robb's curls almost gently but blew Snow's stringy hair into his eyes. That made Theon smile.

The thief was waiting on the hill, bound at the wrists and held by two men. His eyes were trained on the large, flattened rock before him, the one he'd bend over when his time came. _If it were me up there,_ thought Theon, _I'd look around as much as I could before it happened, take in the world while I could instead of letting the last thing I ever see be that stupid rock_.

 _If it were me up there_.

Theon's duty was to present Lord Stark's sword to him. He'd done it so many times that it now felt like a memory, a part of him— the flat rock, the glint of the greatsword, those cold grey eyes peeing down at him.

 _It is a great honor to serve as Lord Stark's ward_ , Theon told himself. _Highborn boys from all seven kingdoms would be jealous of my position._ Yet it seemed some cruel sort of mockery when Ned Stark drew the great sword from its scabbard— from Theon's own hands— to the music of sliding steel.

The thief spoke his last words and Stark spoke his own, the ones he always said. Then he hefted Ice over his shoulder, preparing for the blow. Lord Stark was swift as ever, but for a moment the sun caught on his greatsword, illuminating the edges of the cool steel. The sword was great and terrible and silver and burning— somehow fire and ice at the same time.

And then dark. So dark, so wet, so red.

The man's head left his shoulders with surprising ease and smoothness, then fell quite neatly to the ground. It didn't even look real. Theon laughed. A few of the men cast him disapproving glances, but Theon was used to that by now. He didn't understand how the northerners could stand to be so grim all the time.

The body slumped off the rock, rather pathetically, Theon thought. The thin layer of snow that crusted the ground seemed to drink the man's blood, steaming and swelling as it darkened.

All was still and quiet as death for a few moments before Lord Stark turned to leave, signaling his men to mount up again. Theon couldn't bring his eyes from the wet redness spreading in the snow.

The winds had seemed only to grow stronger on the ride back to Winterfell. When the castle walls drew near, Robb and Jon broke from the group to race back. Robb's whoops and hollers drifted on the wind long after he and his mount became blurs on the horizon. Theon kept his place beside Lord Stark and scoffed at the younger boys— they were so childish, so carefree. Yet part of Theon wished he could've ridden off with them.

When he arrived at the castle and his horse was seen to, Theon made straight for the kitchens. He needed a drink. A few drinks, in truth.

He found Wylla, one of the kitchen maids, hunched over a roll of dough, kneading it forcefully. She had straw colored hair and a was a pit plump for Theon's taste, but he could tell she fancied his quick grin and honeyed tongue. She often let him skim rolls or candied fruit from the bakery. This time he needed wine.

He crept up beside her and threw a pinch of flour in her face. She shrieked and reeled backward, but he caught her by the wrist to keep her from tripping.

"What did you do that for?" Wylla's tone was accusatory, but she couldn't seem to suppress a smile.

"You look good in white," Theon murmured.

Wylla blushed bright red beneath the crust of flour that coated her cheeks.

Theon spied a bowl of baked plums and popped one into his mouth. It burst tart and juicy on his tongue.

"Those aren't for eating just yet!" Wylla cried, as if he'd committed some great injustice. "They haven't been rolled in sugar!"

"They suit me fine this way," said Theon. He sucked the last of the plum juice from his thumb. "Besides, I have all the sweetness I could need right here in this room already."

With that, Theon knew he had her; she was beet red and giggling, high and thin and airy. Theon stretched his arms above his head and yawned.

"Did you go riding today, m'Lord?" Wylla asked.

"Aye, and I still have a chill. Say, you know what might warm me?" Theon leaned closer to her, placing his lips mere inches from her cheek so that his breath blew on her skin with every word. "Or should I say _who_?"

Wylla took a few flustered moments to reply. "M'Lord, I'm needed in the kitchens until suppertime," she managed.

Theon did his best to look disappointed. "I guess some wine will have to suffice for now," he said. "It's a great shame though. I'd rather not have to ride back out into the cold to fetch some."

Truth be told, Theon could not have ridden beyond the castle walls even if he wanted, but Wylla didn't know that. She was rather dull but eager to help.

"I'm allowed into the wine cellar, and it always has too many bottles to count. You wouldn't believe it, but it's true!" Wylla boasted. She paused for a moment, biting her lip. "I'd wager I could swipe a bottle for you."

Theon feigned surprise. "You think so?" he said. "My, that would be…that would be wonderful!"

Wylla took one last furtive glance around the room to be sure she wasn't being watched before seizing and empty basket and scurrying off. Theon propped himself against the wall, smug with success.

Wylla returned not long after, carrying a heavier basket than she left with. She hastily pulled out a bottle of wine out from beneath a heap of carrots and handed it to Theon. He slid the bottle beneath his cloak and planted a kiss on Wylla's cheek before leaving her to her work.

 _Stupid girl_ , Theon thought, smiling to himself as sauntered to his chambers.

When he made it to his quarters, Theon pulled a chair up to his window. The glass bottle gleamed dark and bright in the dying evening light. There was no cup to drink from, but Theon didn't need one; he sipped straight from the bottle. It was sour stuff, and strong too. Theon didn't dislike the taste, but even the wine reminded him of the dark stain in the snow from the day's beheading. He'd have to drink it quickly. He could try to finish before dusk, race the sun as it fell toward the horizon. He'd make a game of it. Theon was good at games.

The drink was a soft burning in his throat, a warmth spreading in his chest. With every sip he could feel his limbs loosen and his head grow lighter. Theon slumped back in his chair and inhaled deeply, nostrils filling with the scent of sour flame.

He was halfway through the bottle when a serving girl knocked at his door to inform him that suppertime was nigh.

"Tell Lord Stark I have taken ill and have no appetite," Theon told her through the door, not bothering to open it.

Pressing his ear to the wood, Theon could hear the serving girl's steps echo through the hallway as she left. Satisfied, Theon slunk back to his chair. Lord and Lady Stark would not look favorably upon him skipping meals, but even he could be sick sometimes. They wouldn't send a maester to him, not yet. He would break his fast with them in the morning and tell them that he was feeling better and thank them for their concern. Theon could find it within himself to do that, but first he needed a night alone.

 _What will my last words be, if it should be me bent over that wretched rock?_ thought Theon. He took a long pull from his bottle. He could think of a good many things he'd like to say to Lord Stark, once he knew that he could get himself into no further trouble. _Gods, the bastard will be there too. Will Snow finally permit himself a smile then, when my head leaves my shoulders?_

The wine was just beginning to taste sweet by the time he'd drained the last of it. No sooner had he set the empty bottle on his bedside table than came another rapping at his door, this time louder than the first.

"Theon?" came Robb's muffled voice from the hallway. "May I come in?"

"You may not," Theon called back.

Robb came in.

"I bloody told you to stay outside," Theon said as he heard the door creak open.

"I bloody came in anyway," Robb replied.

"Clearly!" Theon reached for his bottle but noticed it was empty. He cursed and knocked it to the floor.

"Theon," said Robb, a note of concern in his voice.

Theon turned in his chair. Robb was frowning, and he held in his hands a loaf of bread and a wedge of cheese. Jon Snow trailed at his heels, scowling slightly. He had been so quiet that Theon hadn't even noticed him at first.

"You were missed at supper," Robb said.

"Oh was I?" said Theon, lip curling.

"By some, it seems," said Jon, earning himself a jab in the ribs from his half-brother.

"I thought you might be hungry." Robb strode into the room and placed the bread and cheese on the small table beside Theon.

"'M not."

"Come on, Robb, he wants us to go," said Jon, who was still lingering in the doorway.

"The bastard speaks true, for once," said Theon, glancing back at Jon and grinning.

"You're drunk," said Robb.

"What a clever pair you two make tonight!" said Theon, grin broadening.

"Robb, let's just leave him alone."

"You can go, Jon," said Robb. "I need a word with Greyjoy."

Theon stiffened. He hated it when Robb called him that.

Snow obliged without needing to be told twice. Neither Theon nor Robb talked until the sound of his retreating footsteps faded.

"Where did you get the wine, Theon?" Robb asked flatly.

"Was a gift," slurred Theon.

"From whom?"

"Some kitchen wench."

"And where did she get the wine?"

Theon shrugged. "Go 'n ask her yourself, 'f you care so much."

Theon met Robb's eyes for the first time since he showed up at the door. The Stark boy's jaw was tight, and his eyes burned coolly. Theon knew that look and didn't like it being directed at himself.

"Don't ever steal from my father again," Robb said.

The words tumbled out of Theon before he knew he was saying them.

"Oh please, your father has stolen far more from me."

A dreadful silence hung in the air for what seemed like an eternity, and Theon just stared out at the twilit courtyard, waiting for Robb to say something. When he mustered the courage to look up at Robb, he noticed that the Stark boy's blue eyes had softened, and his brow was furrowed in what didn't seem to be anger anymore, but concern.

"Is that what this is about?" Robb asked. His voice was surprisingly gentle.

"'Salways about that," Theon muttered. He reached for the bottle, forgetting he'd knocked it to the floor. "Fuck."

Robb pulled up a chair beside Theon.

"Theon, I—

"I've always wondered," Theon interrupted, a smile creeping at the corner of his lips. "Since it's my duty to present your _Lord father's_ sword to him before he chops some criminal's head off, who will have that honor if my turn comes? Will I have to hand him his precious _Ice_ and then get on my knees? That'd be a right laugh, wouldn't it? I suppose Snow would be glad to do it, or maybe your father would even be so kind as to bestow the honor upon you."

Theon turned to Robb, who looked horrified.

"Father wouldn't—

"Yes he would," snapped Theon, the smile falling from his face.

Robb's gaze fell to the floor. He seemed at a loss for words.

"Stop lying to yourself, Robb," said Theon. "You know as well as I do that he'd do it without a second thought. Why else am I here? It's his duty, he'd—

"I wouldn't let him," Robb cut in.

Theon considered Robb for a moment before letting out a bitter laugh.

"You wouldn't be able to stop him even if you tried," he said. "Good king Robert has asked for my head if my father rebels again, and neither you nor your father can do a damn thing about it."

"But your father won't rebel again," said Robb, with what he seemed to be trying to pass for conviction. His quavering voice and anxious eyes betrayed him, however. "Would he?"

Theon sucked in a sharp breath of air. He'd wondered the same thing every day since he'd arrived at Winterfell.

"I don't know," Theon admitted, his voice thick and low. The words seemed to spill from his lips. "I don't even know my father. I haven't seen him in seven years, and he hardly writes me."

Theon's eyes began to sting and grow heavy with tears. The last time he had cried in front of anyone that he could recall had been when Ned Stark had come to take him away from Pyke. His father had scolded him, he remembered.

Theon stood up suddenly and turned away. He mustn't cry, least of all in front of a Stark. Least of all in front of _this_ Stark. Robb who respected him, Robb who looked up to him, Robb who—

"Theon."

Somehow, Theon had found his way to the edge of his bed, and Robb was sitting beside him. The younger boy placed a hand on Theon's arm.

"Don't touch me," said Theon, edging away. He rubbed his eyes. Some part of him hoped that Robb would reach for him again. He rubbed his eyes harder.

Robb sighed. "Your father won't rebel. He won't, I know it."

Theon wanted to believe him, he really did. It was easy to let himself, if only for a moment. Robb's voice was firm but soothing, warm but strong.

"But even if he did, I know my father would let you have a day, at least, before…before he…" Robb couldn't seem to bring himself to say it. "…and I could help you escape."

"Even if you could get me out of the castle, I wouldn't make it five leagues," said Theon. "They'd be looking for me, I'd be hunted, I'd—

"I'll go with you," said Robb. His voice shook, and his eyes brimmed with…no, Theon had to be imagining it. Was he _crying_?

 _You couldn't_ , Theon wanted to say. _You're the heir to Winterfell, you couldn't go against the will of your father_ , but Robb wrapped his arms around Theon, and Theon collapsed into him, shaking with sobs. Theon wanted to resist. Theon wanted Robb to never let go of him. Theon wanted to know what he wanted. Robb pulled him closer. Gods, he was so warm. Theon couldn't remember the last time anyone had held him like this. He could feel Robb's heart beating against his own. Robb's arms were strong and gentle around him. Theon felt wanted, he felt loved, he felt safe. It was a strange feeling.

Theon didn't remember falling asleep, but he dreamt that he lay shivering in the snow. It glistened all around him, silver, beautiful, and terrible. Weirwood leaves littered the forest floor like so many drops of fresh red blood. If he didn't find warmth soon, he would freeze. Theon knew he could bury himself in the snow to buy life for himself a little longer, but he just couldn't bring himself to do it.

Then he noticed two amber eyes peering at him through the darkness, spots of brightness cutting the black. A great grey wolf stalked toward him, bigger than any Theon had ever seen. Theon thought about trying to run, but his limbs felt too heavy to move. But rather than attacking him, the huge wolf curled around him, its fur warmer and more comforting than any hearth fire he'd ever known.

Theon woke to the morning light spilling into his chambers and the taste of bile coating his mouth. And an arm around him— Robb's arm. They'd fallen asleep atop his covers. With a pang, Theon remembered all the times he'd fallen asleep in Robb's bed when he was younger. It was never like this though. Usually Jon was there as well. Theon and Jon would often sneak to Robb's chambers after they were supposed to be sleeping, and they'd stay up half the night playing or planning the next day's adventures or simply talking. Theon remembered once a few years back when the three of them had been sitting up on Robb's bed, restless after a long day of hunting. Eventually, both Jon and Robb had succumbed to sleep. Theon had thought about going back to his own bedroom, but Robb's head had lolled onto his shoulder, and Theon couldn't bring himself to leave. _I don't want to wake him_ , Theon had told himself over and over _, that's all_.

But this time was different; the bastard was not with them, and Theon had fallen asleep crying, not laughing, as he had so many nights before.

 _I had too much to drink_ , Theon thought, _a_ _nd we lost track of time_. Yet he felt a certain guilt as he slipped beneath Robb's arm and crept off the bed. Theon counted himself lucky that Robb was such a heavy sleeper. Robb's face was soft and slack pressed up against the sheets, his mouth hanging slightly open as he breathed heavily. His long eyelashes gleamed bronze in the morning light. Theon didn't let himself look at the Stark boy long; he felt embarrassed to have peered down at all, though no one was even there to watch.

Still dressed in his clothes from the day before, Theon grabbed his bow and strode down to the courtyard to practice archery. He was stupid for being spooked by a beheading, stupid for letting Robb stay in his quarters, stupid for crying in front of him, stupid for crying at all. He loosed shaft after shaft until his shoulders burned and his fingers felt numb.

He was gathering his shafts when he saw Robb and Jon make their way across the courtyard to him. Theon stiffened.

"Theon!" Robb called. "Jon and I are going hawking after we break our fast."

Theon could not bring himself to meet Robb's eyes. "What, and you expect me to join you?" he scoffed.

Robb looked hurt. Jon didn't look anything.

"I thought you liked being included," Robb said quietly.

Robb had always tried to make room for Theon, ever since he arrived at Winterfell, a scared and strange boy of eight years. Theon knew Lord and Lady Stark must have discouraged their firstborn from playing alongside the son of the traitorous Balon Greyjoy, the boy who Ned may very well have to execute one day, yet Robb never let that stop him from reaching out, from giving Theon half a fucking chance when no one else would. Truth be told, Theon liked it more than anything, but he couldn't let himself admit that.

"You two go on and enjoy your mummer's farce of a hunt," said Theon.

Robb reached a hand for Theon's shoulder, but Theon shrugged it off and wrenched another arrow from its target.

"Ass," Jon said before turning and leaving.

"I thought I was helping you," Robb said once Snow had gone.

"I don't need your help," spat Theon.

Robb looked taken aback.

 _Gods, I am more viper than kraken_ , thought Theon, _for my words are laced with venom_.

Suddenly, Robb set his jaw, and his eyes narrowed. "Don't ever steal wine from my father's cellars again, Theon," he said before storming off to follow Jon.

Theon was alone again. He had gotten what he wanted, but why did it feel so bloody awful?

Theon ate with the Starks that night but did not offer up a word more than was required of him. Afterward, he retreated back to his quarters, wishing he had another bottle of wine.

When dusk came, so did Robb. He knocked softly upon the door this time and entered when Theon did not deign to call him in. He walked wordlessly over to Theon, whose gaze was fixed out the window. For some time, the two boys just stood there, Theon leaning with his palms pressed against the cool stone of the window ledge, watching the stars appear slow and blue, and Robb just behind him, his warm energy filling the quiet space of the room. Theon wanted to say something to him. He wanted to yell at him, to apologize, to ask him to hold him once more. He wanted to know what he wanted.

Finally, Robb broke the silence.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked.

"This is what I do," Theon replied, not bothering to glance up. He could hear the Stark boy sigh.

"You don't have to pretend around me," Robb said.

Theon met his eyes.

"Of course I do."


	3. Part III: The Promise of Rain

**Part III: The Promise of Rain**

No dreams came to Theon that night, for sleep would not take him. The whole camp was restless; through the flimsy drapes of his tent Theon could hear the metallic jangling of chainmail, horses snorting and pawing at the ground, the sound of his own heart thrumming against his sternum. Some of the older men had said it would be good to catch a few hours of sleep before the fight, but Theon didn't understand how anyone could sleep the night before a battle.

 _It's_ g _ood to be afraid_ , Theon reminded himself, remembering what he'd told Robb the day he called the banners. _It means you're not stupid_.

It would be a shame to die just yet— things had been going so well for Theon. Ned Stark had ridden for King's Landing, bringing that ugly greatsword with him, and Theon hadn't felt safer in ten years. When, shortly after, Jon Snow had announced he'd be leaving Winterfell to join the Night's Watch, Theon couldn't believe his luck. Robb had been upset to see Jon go, but he spent even more time with Theon after the bastard's departure, and Theon could always find a way to cheer him up. It had become a more demanding task in the recent months, with Bran's fall, the deaths of Jory Cassel and the other members of Lord Stark's guard, the capture of Ned himself, and the war Lady Catelyn had started, but Theon managed all the same. He liked a bit of challenge.

But dawn would bring its own challenges. Theon wondered if he'd live to see the sun break from the horizon and how many Lannister men he'd take with him if he didn't. _Death should not frighten me so much now_ , Theon thought, _after all these years_. It would certainly be better to die on the battlefield than bending his neck to the man who'd practically raised him.

But it was not just the prospect of his own death that frightened him so. _I will not live to see him die_ , Theon told himself, shaking dark thoughts from his head. _Not ever. If they try to cut Robb down they'll have to cut through me first_.

Theon remembered watching from the Sea Tower as Robert Baratheon shored at Pyke and listening to the thunder of his catapults, the screams of dying men. That night he'd prayed to the Drowned God, wishing for the waves to rise and swallow the king and his men. Theon didn't pray anymore. Yet he felt a strange urge to pray that night, as he waited to ride off to battle with the wolves of the North. But to whom should he send his hopes, his fears? He was not in the North, where the Starks' old gods could supposedly hear him. He had always thought the idea of the old gods was silly. How do you pray to them if you know nothing of their names or their faces? Yet sometimes when he stood in the godswood at Winterfell, he felt as if the eyes of the heart tree could see right through him. And he was too far from the sea to seek help from the Drowned God. _Too far from the sea_. Theon ached for it. The waves, their salt spray a memory deep within his bones.

 _The seven can't save me either_ , Theon thought, _but my longbow might_. He ran a hand along the curve of his bow, the smooth yew lithe and lethal. _The only shape I'll pray to_.

Restless, Theon rose. Robb would not be sleeping either, Theon knew. He gathered his longbow, his sword, his armor, and made for Robb's tent. When the guards permitted him entry, Theon found Robb pacing from wall to wall, Grey Wind following at his heels.

"Can't sleep?" Theon asked.

Wordless, Robb shook his head. He scratched his wolf between the ears.

"Me neither," said Theon. "Spent half the night fletching arrows. With any luck, they'll find their way into the hearts of some Lannisters soon enough."

With that, Theon won a smile from the Stark boy.

"It won't be luck, the way you shoot," Robb said.

Theon smirked, a hot pride swelling in his chest. "Maybe one is even destined for the Kingslayer himself," he said.

The smile fell from Robb's lips, and he was once again the very image of cool determination. He donned the face he wore when he held council— confident as it was cautious, focused and stern, yet not hard. It was a face you could listen to and speak to all the same. It was a face you could follow, a face you could love. It was a face he wore well.

"We'll take the Kingslayer alive if we can," said Robb. "Holding him hostage could win us the war before it's truly started."

Theon's grin tasted bitter. _It's the prisoners, not the slain, who make all the difference in war, isn't it?_

Something in Robb's voice changed then. "And we could go home, all of us," he said. "Father and my sisters and my mother too. We'd ride hard for Winterfell…for Bran and Rickon, and we could all be together again. That's all I want."

 _Yes, then you could go home, Stark, but not me_ , thought Theon. Here, in the riverlands, he was closer to home than he'd been since Ned Stark had taken him prisoner ten years before. Riding from Winterfell, even with thousands of Northmen at his back and his captor's son at his side, had felt like freedom.

"How sweet that would be," was all Theon allowed himself to say.

For a moment, his words hung stale in the air. Theon wondered if Robb had even heard them.

"But that's tomorrow," Robb said suddenly. He looked up at Theon, blue eyes burning. "Today, we win."

Theon nodded. "We will," he said, unsure whether it was himself or Robb he was trying to convince.

For some time, neither Theon nor Robb spoke, instead enjoying each other's quiet company, the night air heavy around them. Robb continued to stroke Grey Wind between the ears. Theon crouched beside the wolf, letting Grey Wind lick his fingers before running his hands through his silver fur. Soon enough the he would be ripping out men's throats rather than licking their hands. _You'll protect him, too, won't you?_ Theon wondered silently, meeting the wolf's amber eyes.

And all too soon, it was time.

"Are you afraid?" Theon asked as they rose to gather their things.

Robb offered the smallest of nods. His face was calm; only his eyes betrayed him.

"Good," said Theon, giving Robb's shoulder a squeeze.

Robb's teeth flashed white as a grin broke on his face.

 _He remembers_ , thought Theon.

Suddenly, Robb hugged him. He was shaking, Theon realized. Theon pulled him closer, held him tighter for just a moment. _I won't let them hurt you_ , Theon promised wordlessly, though he knew Robb feared for much more than his own life. He feared for his people, for his mother and father, for all his little brothers and sisters. He'd always been a protective older brother, but now his siblings were all far away, and he could do nothing for them.

 _Except win the war_ , Theon thought.

Somehow, when they broke from their embrace and strode into the predawn chill, Robb Stark seemed anything but afraid. He walked swiftly and smoothly, nodding to his men as he passed them and clapping them on the back to wish them well. His men drew strength from his smiles, his calmness. _Robb wears more armor than plate and mail_ , thought Theon, _and so do I._

The men formed up by the light of the looming moon, the wood painted in dusky shades of blue. Jaime Lannister was marching his men straight into a trap, unaware that an army of shadows lurked in the trees, thirsty for the taste of his blood. Robb's men whispered so as not to give their position away, but Theon wondered how the Lannisters could be deaf to the pounding hearts of 6,000 northerners and rivermen. _And one Ironborn_.

Robb rode down the line of his main host, plate, stallion, wolf, and sword all glinting sliver in the moonlight. In his armor and astride his mount, he looked older than seventeen. A man you could follow, a man you could love.

Perhaps the best use of Theon would have been off in the wooded flanks of the valley, laced in among the bulk of the bowmen, but his place was beside Robb. Theon rode with the thirty of Robb's personal guard, which included two of Lord Karstark's sons, Daryn Hornwood, Patrek Mallister, Dacey Mormont, and Smalljon Umber. The Greatjon himself would command his own men. Though he'd proven recently to be one of Robb's staunchest supporters, Theon mistrusted Lord Umber. Theon couldn't let himself forget the night Robb feasted Lord Umber and his men in the Great Hall of Winterfell. Theon had been looking after Bran that evening, but he kept his eyes and ears open for Robb. He needed someone watching his back with both his Lady mother and Lord father gone. Theon had worried that some of Ned Stark's bannermen might not like the taste of being given commands by his adolescent son, and at first, the Greatjon had only fueled his fears. Theon had pretended to be interested in his mutton, but his gaze had flicked between Robb and Lord Umber for the whole of the supper, taking in every word the two were saying. He'd misliked how the Greatjon was talking to Robb, and when Umber reached for his blade, Theon had already been on his feet, having drawn his own. Thankfully, Robb's wolf had put an end to Umber's insolence, but Theon had kept his hand on his dirk the rest of the supper, and the incident made him all the more wary.

The rest of Lord Stark's bannermen had seemed to take to Robb quickly enough, however. They all had tried to test the Stark boy in their own ways, Theon could tell, but they all had ended up impressed by him. Robb had a level-headed confidence about him, a calmness redolent of Lord Stark himself. But Theon noticed that Robb possessed something the Lord of Winterfell seemed to lack, a sort of cool cunning, a certain shrewdness. Where his father was blunt, Robb was sharp.

Even Theon himself had been disquieted when Robb decided to free the Lannister scout his men had captured. "Tell Lord Tywin winter is coming for him, 20,000 northerners marching south to find out if he really does shit gold," he had said icily before dismissing the lucky scout.

Everyone in Robb's tent had thought him a fool in that moment, his own Lady mother included, none of them realizing Robb was only playing the fool Tywin Lannister must've thought he was: a bold green boy with a hunger for glory.

The Greatjon had approached him angrily once more, roiling Theon's nerves. "Are you _touched_ , boy?" he had cried, and Theon had slid his hand to the hilt of his dagger. If he were Robb, he probably would've yelled back into the Greatjon's face, but Robb's words, soft and sure, had the all the effect he needed. "Call me boy again," he had said.

Robb was doing so well, but he would need help to win this war, and lots of it. Theon wondered what his protection would mean against the thousands of Westermen marching toward them. He thought he could hear them already— the sounds of hooves pounding, the rattle of chainmail. For a moment, Theon wondered if he was imagining it, but the others heard it too, he could tell. Beside him he heard a nervous cough, a whispered prayer. The sound of the oncoming troops was a slow rumbling thunder, the promise of rain. It seemed days before the army erupted onto the horizon and spilled into the valley. Then Maege Mormont's warhorn sounded— the Lannisters had fallen into their trap. Grey Wind threw back his head and howled; it was a mournful sound that split the sky apart and sent shivers up Theon's spine. More warhorns chimed in— Umber and Frey and Mallister and Karstark.

And then the arrows. And then the screams.

Robb raised his sword, signaling the charge. "Winterfell!" he shouted, urging his mount forward as a second round of arrows fell upon the Kingslayer's host.

For a confused moment, Theon wondered if he should cry out 'Pyke!' as he charged. Patrek Mallister would cut him down before the Lannister men even reached him. Despite himself, Theon smiled.

He fell in beside Robb as the rest of the guard closed around him. Theon put his trust in his mount and his sure seat and took up his bow. He drew— felt against his skin the soft, sharp fletching of his arrows— loosed, and men died on the other end of them. He picked his targets and watched them die, each one. It did not feel so different from hunting. Men fell hard and quick, the same as deer and boars and rabbits. They died in whispers, the kiss of his longbow.

 _There's nothing half so mortal as a grey goose feather_.

But when they burst into the throng of soldiers, Theon slipped his bow back into his quiver and drew his sword. Though he was confident in his skills as a swordsman, he felt less comfortable with his sword than his bow. Theon knew, however, that steel would serve him better in close combat; he couldn't see far past the mass of moving shadow that surrounded him, men black and grey and blue, draped in bruises by the moon.

Killing with his sword wasn't quite so clean as killing with his bow. He hacked at men and stabbed at them, and they cursed and cried out and toppled off their horses or under his. A few must've cut him, because he felt hot blood running down his cheek and left arm. Maybe it wasn't his own blood— he hadn't felt the blades on his skin, only the hot rush of his blood burning inside him, and a constant pounding like a drum in his chest.

Whenever he could spare a glance, he checked over his shoulder to make sure Robb was safe. One man slipped through the lines and charged at Robb, but before he could make it to his target, Grey Wind seemed to leap out of nowhere, knocking the man off his horse and tearing out his throat. The wolf's amber eyes burned against the darkness of the morning.

A second contender rode at Robb from his left. Theon didn't have time to be angry at the guardsmen who let him get this close. He wheeled his horse to move himself between the assailant and Robb, ducking below his opponent's attack and slashing him across the belly. Half a heartbeat later, the point of Robb's sword found the man's chest. The dead soldier fell from his horse, spilling rivers of dark blood where they had cut him. Theon made eyes with Robb, and the Stark boy nodded at him.

Theon turned, sword poised to face another foe, but then he saw— no, heard— _felt_ the arrows raining down on them.

"SHIELD!" he screamed at Robb, not taking the time to raise his own.

The arrows missed Theon, but he heard Robb's mount scream and saw the grey stallion fall. Theon felt his heart in his throat when he saw Robb thrown from his horse. But as he drew up to where Robb lay in the grass, Theon realized he'd flung himself from the saddle to avoid being crushed by his mount. Robb slit the poor beast's throat to put it out of its misery. Theon leaned from his seat and lent a hand to help him up.

"You alright?" Theon had to yell to be heard over the shouts and screams of man and horse alike.

"Never better!"

Theon was about to offer Robb his own mount, but Dacey Mormont rode in, leading a riderless horse by the bridle. In a flash, Robb was mounted. He rode forward, undeterred, his wolf striding ahead of him. The Lannisters' horses went mad at the scent of Grey Wind, throwing their riders from their seats before the beast even reached them. Theon saw the direwolf take a man full in the face at the same time Robb near hacked another opponent's head off. The wolf's jaws dripped red when he lifted them from his kill and howled.

Perhaps the sky was lightening, or maybe Theon was just imagining it. They were winning, he saw. They had closed the Westermen in, and they were dying like thousands of red-black flies.

Soon the darkness lifted, dawn spilling its reds into the sky. _Red above, and red below_ , thought Theon. The valley was littered with the bodies of red men. Red from their armor, red from their blood. They lay in heaps, they lay alone, they lay in pieces, they lay trampled and whimpering and bleeding and dead.

Then Theon saw a group of riders charging hard at them. Leading them was a tall knight, golden hair spilling out from beneath his helm. The Kingslayer. He cut through the men in his way as if cutting through a wheel of cheese. In the blink of an eye, he was on them. Daryn Hornwood was the first to try his sword against the Kingslayer, but Jaime Lannister killed him in one swift stroke, a flash of silver. Moments later, Eddard Karstark was on him. Steel kissed and flew and kissed again, but in a spray of red, Karstark was unhorsed and screaming. The Kingslayer was making for Robb, armor glinting brilliantly in the morning sun.

Theon reined himself in front of Robb. _I could be the Kingslayer-slayer, wouldn't that make for a lovely song?_ he thought— but then, in a tangle of flesh and disappointment and relief, Robb's men were on Jaime Lannister and wrestling him to the ground. The Greatjon was among them— Theon hadn't even noticed when he joined.

The battle was over as suddenly as it had started. The valley reeked of death, heavy with the stench of blood, shit, and bile. But the air tasted sweet to Theon. He was alive, Robb was alive. They had crushed Jaime Lannister's host and captured the Kingslayer himself, along with a whole slew of western lordlings. Theon had lost count of how many men he'd killed. He felt giddy. He wanted to laugh, to shout, to jump into the stream and dunk his head under its rushing waters. No doubt, he'd be swimming with dead men if he did so, but it didn't matter— he was _alive_.

Theon turned to beam at Robb, but the Stark boy was peering out at the field of bloating bodies before them, his face grave. _Don't bother yourself with them, Robb_ , Theon wanted to say. _A feast for crows and flies, not your pretty eyes._

"As good a victory as we could have hoped for," he said instead. "Would that I could see the look on Lord Tywin's face when he hears how his son's host was ambushed by the Young Wolf."

A smile came upon Robb's lips. His face was caked in blood and dirt and sweat, as was Theon's own, but both of them were unhurt.

The rest of the morning seemed to pass as if in a blur. The sun was bright and warm, and Theon's head spun. The captives were presented to Robb, and the wounded were carried away on carts. _We won, we won, we won,_ Theon kept thinking. _We crushed them._

Theon and the Greatjon dragged the Kingslayer between them when they rode to present him to Lady Catelyn. She seemed relieved to see her son riding back to her, yet not as excited about the victory as Theon would have expected. _Bugger that_ , Theon thought, _she's always displeased about something._

Both Robb and Lady Stark looked at him as if he were a fool when he suggested that Robb execute the Kingslayer right then and there. _Blood for blood,_ Theon thought. _He cut down at least ten of our men today, and it would serve as vengeance for Jory and the others killed in King's Landing. The Lannisters aren't the only ones who pay their debts._

Theon was afraid for a moment that Robb himself would play the fool when Jaime propositioned to end the war by way of single combat, but Robb knew better.

"If we do it your way, Kingslayer, you'd win," he said. "We're not doing it your way."

Robb's men all cheered as the Greatjon carried the Kingslayer off to be thrown in irons, yet Robb himself seemed troubled. He stared off into the woods, his brow knitted.

"I sent two thousand men to their graves today," he said to Theon, his voice barely more than a whisper.

The decoy army sent to occupy Lord Tywin's host was surely annihilated, but that had been a necessary component of their strategy. Theon thought Robb should be celebrating his victory, not mourning his dead. Men must die in war, that was the way of it.

Theon smiled, hoping to lift Robb's spirits. "The bards will sing songs of their sacrifice," he said.

"Aye, but the dead won't hear them." Robb stepped forward to address his troops, still looking grim. "One victory does not make us conquerors," he said. "Did we free my father? Did we rescue my sisters from the queen? Did we free the North from those who want us on our knees?" His gaze fell, and he looked as if he were just realizing it himself. "This war is far from over."

 _He acts as if we've lost,_ thought Theon. He wouldn't let Robb's foul mood sour his own.

When they rode back to camp, Theon realized he was ravenous. He ate and drank his fill with some of the other survivors of Robb's personal guard, reliving the best moments of the battle, cracking jokes, and throwing out plans for the Kingslayer's imprisonment and battles to come. Theon thought of what he'd give for a sweet bottle of a wine and a pretty whore. With his blood rushing even Dacey Mormont, still sweaty and bloodstained and more powerful than Theon usually preferred, drew his eyes as she passed him a horn of ale. But Theon hardly needed the ale to get drunk— his head was swimming and his heart was racing with the thrill of the victory.

The success of the recent battle seemed to invigorate Robb's men on the march to Riverrun— under sunny skies they were making good time. The general mood of camp was one of hope and merriment. They'd drawn first blood in the war and were thirsty for more.

They were just a few days from Riverrun when storm clouds settled in. Theon sensed something was wrong the minute he rode into camp from his latest hunt, a fresh kill slung behind his saddle. Men all over camp were murmuring in low tones to one another and some were yelling and cursing. Theon saw some women weeping as they embraced. He spotted Smalljon Umber and asked him what all the fuss was about.

"There's been a raven from King's Landing," the Smalljon said, lip curling, voice thick with emotion. "Lord Stark is dead— murdered by that boy king, beheaded for _treason_."

Theon just stared at him, his lips parted slightly. _Lord Stark is dead_ , the Smalljon had said. It couldn't be— he must've been mistaken.

 _I must find Robb. I have to be with him._

Theon stumbled through camp, trying to puzzle it out in his head. His stomach fluttered as if he were nervous. As he made his way to Robb's tent, he couldn't let himself believe it. But when Theon found Robb, bent on the edge of his cot, temple cradled in his palms, Grey Wind curled at his feet, he knew it was true. Robb didn't even seem to notice Theon as he entered the tent.

Theon didn't know what to say— in his head, he grappled with a few versions of 'I just heard the news' and 'I'm so sorry' and 'we'll get vengeance for him.'

Instead, he only said, "Robb."

Robb looked up at him, sucking in a sharp, rattling breath. His eyes were red.

Theon didn't know what to do. He seemed to move without thinking. He drew Robb into his arms, and the Stark boy collapsed against him, sobbing. He was so strong, Theon knew, but someone needed to hold him up at times too. Today, that needed to be him. Theon only wished he could be half as comforting as Robb had been for him during his time in Winterfell. With four younger siblings who adored him, embraces seemed to come as easily to Robb as breathing. _Not all older brothers are gentle and sweet and warm_ , Theon thought, remembering his own. He probably wasn't as nice to hold as Robb was— Theon's skin was always cold to the touch, and his arms weren't quite as strong as the Stark boy's. He hoped he was enough.

"The Whispering Wood meant nothing," Robb choked, stepping back from Theon's embrace. Grief softened his face, and his blue eyes shone round and wet. Gods, he was just a boy.

Theon shook him gently by his shoulders.

"The Whispering Wood meant everything," he said. "You have the Kingslayer."

"And the Lannisters have my sisters," Robb sounded miserable.

"Exactly. They won't hurt them knowing that you have their precious Jaime," said Theon. He made himself grin, for Robb. "If anyone knows how hostages work, it's me." _Am I even a hostage anymore?_ Theon wondered. _Robert Baratheon and Ned Stark are both dead, and Robb is Lord of Winterfell in truth now._

As he let out a bitter laugh, the shadow of a smile fell over Robb's face, but it passed as quickly as it came. His lower lip trembled. "My sisters are in King's Landing in the clutches of the queen, and my brothers are in Winterfell, alone," he said, "and I can't help them."

"Your brothers are not alone, and you can help them. You can win the war. You've won every battle you've fought," said Theon.

"I suppose you're right," said Robb, sniffling.

"I tend to be," said Theon.

Seemingly in spite of himself, Robb's lips twitched upward at one corner. For a few moments, they lingered in silence, and Theon allowed himself to become lost in his thoughts. Ned Stark…the man who'd ridden on Robert Baratheon's war galley with him as Pyke dwindled in the distance the last time he'd seen it, the man who'd watched as he'd sparred with Robb and Jon and offered words of advice to each of them, the man he'd hunted with, the man who might've one day been his executioner.

Suddenly, Grey Wind climbed to his feet, and Robb's face turned hard as stone.

"I'll kill them all for this," said Robb. Despite his Tully hair and eyes, he looked wolfish. "Joffrey, Lord Tywin, the queen…winter will come for them all."

"We'll avenge him together," said Theon, a beat too late. He wondered what Robb would say if he told him that mingled with his disbelief, anger, and grief, he felt relieved.


	4. Part IV: Summer Dusk

**Part IV: Summer Dusk**

They leaned on each other, laughing. The halls of Riverrun had seemed so somber just hours before when Robb's men met in council, but now a new sense of hope filled the castle.

 _We have a new king,_ thought Theon.

But his king stumbled drunkenly sideways, nearly pushing him into the hard stone wall. Theon laughed aloud.

"What is it?" Robb asked.

"May I speak my mind, Your Grace?" Theon replied with mock formality.

"When haven't you?" said Robb. His drunken grin was lopsided.

So was Theon's. "It seems my king can't hold his liquor," he said.

Robb's smile collapsed. "Don't call me that," he said quickly.

"Call you what?"

"Your king."

"Robb, you _were_ listening down there in the great hall, I hope?" Theon said. "You'd be deaf to not have heard every Northman and Riverman naming you their king."

"And one Ironborn," Robb said with a soft smile.

"Aye," said Theon, a warmth swelling in his chest. "And one Ironborn."

Theon could still hear all the voices ringing in his head, strong and proud as his own pulse had been, yet not half so scared. _The King in the North! The King in the North!_ And how Robb had stood before them all, at first in shock, and then resolution, empowered by the hundred voices hailing him. Theon's had been the third. He had allowed himself a moment to see how the room would react to the Greatjon's declaration, but when Karstark followed suit and bent his knee to Robb, Theon didn't waste a heartbeat. Bugger the high lords, the old men— they didn't know the king like he did. Theon loved Robb better than any of them. He deserved to be Robb's first sworn sword.

The evening had become a rush of power and pride and hope and thrill. The Greatjon had insisted they toast their new king, and Robb was treated to Lord Hoster's finest wine from the Arbor. Robb had gotten quite drunk by the end of the night, but Theon wasn't sure the wine was to blame. With the stress of the war and the thrill of their recent victory, a hundred men you respect kneeling before you and taking you for their king ought to addle your brain. Since he was no king, Theon shared ale with most of the other men. He'd have preferred wine, but it was no matter; he drank cup after cup until his head spun. For those few hours, they all felt so strong it seemed there was no way the Lannisters could ever defeat them. It was beginning of a new era for the North, a night that would go down in history. The Young Wolf would lead them to victory and change the world by shaping his own.

The Young Wolf scrabbled for the door handle. Somehow, they'd managed to fumble from the great hall to his chambers.

"Allow me, Your Grace," said Theon. He opened the door and beckoned Robb in.

The king began to stumble into the room, "You don't have to call me—

"I want to," said Theon, shutting the door behind him.

Robb's smile almost seemed sad. "Everyone will have to call me that now, won't they?"

"Yes, Your Grace."

"Theon, stop."

"If it please Your Grace."

Robbed grinned and shook his head. But his smile fell from his face when he seated himself on the edge of his bed. "When everyone started calling me Lord Stark, knowing that, you know….my father wasn't…wasn't around anymore…it felt different."

Theon sat down beside Robb.

"It feels like Lord Stark is a different person," Robb confessed. "All these years I prepared for stepping into my father's shoes, you remember. All these years I pretended to be Lord Stark, and now I _am_ him. But I feel like I'm still just pretending."

"You're a very good pretender," said Theon, reaching a hand over and ruffling Robb's hair.

A smile stole upon the new king's face as he let himself bend beneath the gentle weight of Theon's hand.

"And now I'll have to pretend at being a king, won't I?" said Robb.

"I'm sure you'll be very good at that as well," said Theon, and with the pride and admiration, something strange coiled in his gut. Something that felt like longing. Something that felt like envy.

"To almost everyone I'll be Your Grace, now," said Robb. "But to you I'll still just be Robb, right? Robb the boy you grew up with in Winterfell?"

He peered at Theon with childlike eyes, eyes of hope and fear. He sounded like the boy Theon grew up with.

Theon furrowed his brow. "What? Robb who? I can't seem to recall—

Robb's shove was meant to be affectionate, but he was stronger than he knew. Theon fell backward, laughing, onto the bed. Robb beamed down at him. Gods, the creases in his cheeks and the white flash of his teeth. An ache filled Theon, gnawing at every bone in his body.

"I thought about what you said earlier tonight," Robb said, the smile still playing at his lips. He leaned in closer. His eyes glittered with what seemed like mischief. The reddish stubble on his chin and cheeks caught in the candle light, and Theon had the urge to reach up and take his face into his hands.

"I spoke more than once tonight," said Theon, trying to keep his voice mild, though his heart hammered in his throat.

" _Am I your brother_?" Robb recalled.

Theon could feel Robb's hot breath on his face. It smelled sweet, thick, and strong, like the wine he'd been drinking. Though Theon had drunk his fill of ale, suddenly a thirst overtook him.

"Well, I've changed my answer," said Robb.

Theon's breath caught. _Have I said something wrong? Done something to give offense?_

"You're no brother of mine, Greyjoy," said Robb, grin broadening. He leaned in closer still. "Brothers don't do this."

Robb kissed him full on the mouth. A small voice in Theon's head told him to flinch away, but that voice was easy to ignore. A stronger voice told him to kiss Robb back, to run his fingers through those auburn curls— and so he did.

Their kisses began tenderly, slow and gentle. It was strange what occurred to Theon in those first moments, what thrilled him— their breaths mixing hotly, the proximity of their eyelashes. Against his own, Robb's lips were warm and soft and sweet. They tasted of Arbor red, and Theon couldn't get enough of them. He kissed them fiercely, ravenous. _I could get drunk on you,_ Theon thought. They grappled at the fastenings of each other's clothing— hungry, brave, afraid.

Theon had seen Robb naked half a hundred times but never like this. He had never felt the smooth warmth of his bare skin beneath his fingertips or the tautness of his muscles pressed up against his own. Theon had a lean strength to him, an archer's sinewy arms and shoulders that were far more powerful than one would guess at first glance, but still Robb was more thickly built than him. Theon usually preferred girls who were much smaller than him, girls who were soft and weak and made him feel powerful, girls…but with Robb it somehow felt right. It felt easy. He didn't have to prove anything, he didn't have to be anyone other than who he was. _Do I even know who that is?_ Theon wondered fleetingly, _Does Robb?_

He let go of the thought and held Robb closer.

Afterward, they lay tangled and glistening in the sheets, hot and breathless and giddy. Robb rested his head on Theon's chest, fingers tracing slow circles on Theon's shoulder. Theon played lazily with Robb's hair, feeling dizzy and wondering at his luck. He didn't deserve this— he never had. He'd tried to push the Stark boy away since his first day in Winterfell, tried to hate him even, yet he was a failure even in that. Despite everything he did, Robb had only ever treated him with kindness. _We were just boys_ , thought Theon. _How could you have understood me at all? Why had you ever wanted to be friends with the traitor's son, all sulks and smiles and mean to the bone?_

"How could you possibly…" Theon wrestled with the words, "…want me?"

He felt Robb's hand go limp on his shoulder.

Robb looked up at him, blue eyes bright and bemused. "How could I not fall for you? Those ocean eyes, that crooked smile?"

"Robb—

"The angles of your face and the way you say my name?"

Theon sniggered. "I've never noticed that you have a penchant for poetry when you're drunk."

"I've always had a penchant for poetry," Robb murmured suggestively, propping himself up on one arm.

"That doesn't make any sense," Theon began to say, but suddenly Robb was kissing him again, and Theon couldn't care less what made sense and what didn't.

At some point Theon couldn't recall, impossibly, they fell asleep. Theon woke to soft sunlight slanting in through the window, the steady rhythm of Robb's breathing, and a hot, slick layer of sweat coating his skin like morning dew. His left arm was slung over Robb's side, and his face was pressed up into his soft mane of curls. Theon allowed himself to bask in it all for a moment— the feel of Robb's skin, the coniferous smell of him.

 _This is perfect_ , was his first thought.

 _I should go,_ was his second.

When Theon slid his right arm out from beneath Robb, it tingled numbly. The room spun when he stood up, and he had to grasp onto a bedpost to steady himself. His stomach lurched, and his throat burned.

 _Seven hells, how much did I drink last night?_ he wondered. He felt a thousand things at once.

Robb stirred in the sheets, still sound asleep. Somehow, he looked younger with his lips parted, his fierce eyes draped behind their heavy lids, framed by curling lashes that gleamed copper in the morning light. Theon watched him sleep for some time, bugger his shame. He was half-grown and handsome, this boy king of his.

Sleep was the only peace Robb was like to get in such times. Theon felt a fierce urge to protect him. He could bar the doors, and the war would never reach them. No one could hurt him. The two of them could hide away in the castle with an entire army to protect them. They would grow old together and just eat and drink and laugh and kiss and live and die in each other's arms.

 _Fuck the war_ , thought Theon. _Fuck the Lannisters. Fuck the Gods, all of them— Old and New and Drowned. Fuck Winterfell, fuck Pyke. The Others take this whole damn country. All I want is you._

Theon almost reached out to wake Robb and tell him as much but then thought better of it. _He is driving me mad._

Theon dressed quietly, musing. Was it really so mad to imagine a happy ending for them? Theon was not stupid; he knew full-well that Robb was betrothed and would not forsake his oath to be with him. He did not expect it to be easy or to have Robb to himself. _But Robb may well be bound in a loveless marriage to some Frey wench_ , _he may want me yet._ Theon had heard rumors of Renly Baratheon, who now had a crown and troops aplenty, and his Knight of Flowers, who was well-respected across the seven kingdoms in spite of his age and proclivities. What harm could their being together cause? It was not like they could father a bastard together.

 _You hopeless, bloody fool,_ Theon chided himself. Robb valued honor just like his father. But more than his father, he valued that of others over his own. Robb would not want to risk shaming his new wife the way Lord Eddard had shamed his own by bringing home his bastard. It wasn't just that Jon was raised with her children at Winterfell that had been a slight on her honor— he was the living, breathing evidence that Lord Stark had fucked another woman. If word got out about him and Theon, Robb would be made a joke of by his men, and his queen would be pitied across the realm. And the Ironborn would never take Theon for their leader if they knew he had bedded a man, a wolf no less.

Theon's first love had been the sea— he would not give it up. _Not even for you_ , Theon thought sadly, taking one last look at Robb before turning away and padding toward the door.

Every fiber of his being screamed at him to stay, to crawl back into the bed beside Robb and hold him in his arms. All the same, his instincts told him that he should feel ashamed, that he should leave as quickly as possible. _The only shame I feel is in how little I am ashamed._ The thought made him grin in spite of himself.

If there were sentries waiting in the hall, he planned to tell them that they would need to post a fresh guard inside the king's quarters, but when he stepped outside the room he found none. He didn't know whether to count himself lucky or to be furious. He'd make sure to bring it up the next time Robb held court; the king should have men posted outside his door day and night, even in a castle full of friends.

Some food would surely settle his stomach, but Theon couldn't bring himself to eat. He felt heartsick, or maybe it was just all the ale from the night before. _He could never love me,_ Theon thought, _not even if he wanted to. He is a king now, and what am I?_ Even if Robb risked his reputation and that of his wife-to-be, Theon could only ever be the king's pet, his plaything. That would not do for the heir to Pyke and the Iron Islands; he was destined for greater things. Someday, when the war was won and the Lannisters defeated, Robb would rule as King in the North from Winterfell, and Theon would rule as Lord of the Iron Islands from Pyke. Finally, there would be true peace between the Starks and Greyjoys. They would be unstoppable allies.

Theon felt his head rush. To win the war, Robb would need to take King's Landing, and to take King's Landing, he would need ships. The North was not known for its naval strength— the aid of the Iron Fleet would prove immensely valuable. The alliance would not be easy to forge, of course, given the bad blood between the Greyjoys and the Starks. Balon Greyjoy would never have agreed to fight for Ned Stark, but Robb was not his father. Still, Lord Greyjoy would need someone to convince him, someone he could trust. Someone who knew both the Iron Islands and the North. _I could convince him,_ thought Theon. _I'm his only living son; surely he'd listen to me._ Surely he'd be proud of his last son, who had won a great victory against the Lannisters, who had gone from a ward of Ned Stark to a trusted advisor and friend of his newly-crowned son, who could help restore the Iron Islands to glory.

Pleased with himself, Theon grinned. To warm his father to his plan, he'd need to present him with something to gain from the alliance, something he wanted. Theon knew instantly what that was. Balon wanted what he'd lost his sons for, what he started a war for: a crown. And who better to pass his crown to than his only living son, the son who would help him win it? No, Theon would not be Lord of the Iron Islands while Robb was King in the North; they'd be kings together.

But before he got the chance to convince his father, he'd have to convince Robb. Most Northmen would not look favorably upon sending Theon back home and would oppose the idea of restoring the Iron Islands to independence, but Robb was not like most Northmen. Robb trusted him and would listen to him. Independence for the Iron Islands would not detract from Robb's lands or wealth; he wasn't interested in the Iron Throne and all the seven kingdoms. Robb only wanted independence for the North and vengeance on the Lannisters. The Ironborn had no great love for the Lannisters either. If they helped Robb win his war, he'd respect their sovereignty.

Sending Theon away to negotiate with his father would mean sending him home. A longing overcame Theon, strong as any he'd ever known. He was so close. He fancied he could hear sails snapping in the breeze and taste the briny ocean air all around him.

His head was filled with dreams of the sea when Robb summoned his bannermen to the great hall to discuss the peace terms he planned to propose to the Lannisters. Though a king now, he acted no stranger to his men as they entered the room. Instead of waiting for them at the head of the table, Robb stood by the door, greeting each man as he entered. They offered him deference as they passed, and he offered them warmth and familiarity. For a moment, Theon worried that Robb might look away when he approached, or blush, or fumble over his words, but when they met eyes, his fears were assuaged. Nothing they had done could damage their comfort with one another.

"Your Grace," Theon said with a bow of his head.

The shadow of a smile crept upon Robb's face, and Theon barely managed to suppress his own. It would not do for Robb's bannermen to suspect him of insolence, especially in light of the offer he planned to propose.

His offer would need to wait, however. Theon did not wish to bombard Robb with his plans suddenly and overwhelm him. Theon would give him time to adjust to being a king, to explore this new, even greater measure of power he'd been given over his bannerman, so that he may feel comfortable opposing them when the time came. The Northmen would mislike the idea of fighting alongside the Ironborn, but they would oblige if their king commanded them, if he convinced them that it was the only way to win the war. Many of Robb's men had fought against Theon's father during his rebellion, but Robb himself had been just a boy at the time. He didn't hold the same grudge against the Greyjoys that his older bannermen did. He hadn't been on the shores of Pyke when the fighting broke out, hadn't lost any brothers to the battle, hadn't watched from the Sea Tower as flames danced above the ocean, as his father's men died in scores below, the night ringing with screams of steel and suffering…

"The King in the North," the Lords around the table murmured, in approval of something Robb had said.

"The King in the North," Theon chimed in, a beat late.

No one seemed to notice except Lady Catelyn, whose eyes lingered on him for a moment before flickering away. _She mistrusts me_ , Theon thought, _though I ate at her table for years, though I saved Bran's life in the wolfswood, though I bled for Robb on the battlefield. She should be kissing my feet for keeping her sons alive._

However, Lady Stark did seem to approve of his insistence that Robb had need of stricter guarding, as befitted his status as a king. Theon made eyes with Robb, who seemed to take his meaning. _There was no one outside your door this morning when I left you._ They could communicate with a glance across the table without his bannermen having the slightest notion.

Robb listened to every suggestion for modifications to his peace terms with patience and respect. At one point Lords Umber and Glover began to bicker, but Robb put a quick end to the quarreling. It was strange to see a man as formidable as the Greatjon humbled by a boy just shy of eighteen, though Theon thought there was something far older about the way Robb sat, the way he spoke, the way he listened. Robb had gone from his captor's son and his best friend to his Lord to his King in the blink of an eye. Theon was by turns jealous and proud.

Over the next few weeks, as Robb finalized his peace terms, Theon deliberated upon his own: the terms of the alliance he planned to propose. Theon spent almost every waking hour beside Robb, though the king was so busy that he was hard to get alone. Theon told himself it was for the best. There were, however, a few nights he stayed up talking with Robb for hours in his chambers and a few stolen kisses on an evening they'd been drinking, but he could not spend another night in Robb's quarters again, not since he'd ensured that guards were posted outside the door at all hours. _It is my own doing_ , Theon told himself, _so why am I disappointed? Why am I relieved?_

It was the night that Robb delivered his peace terms to ser Alton Lannister that Theon made his proposal, and three nights later that he left for Pyke.

He heard Robb's bannermen murmuring amongst themselves and saw Lady Catelyn's poorly-concealed looks of disapproval, but they could do nothing to tame his excitement; he was going _home_.

He was loath to leave Robb, for fear that some misfortune may befall him in battle. _If I'm not here and…and…_ Theon would not let himself think of it. His trip should not take long, and the king would have plenty of men protecting him. _They will protect him, but will they give him comfort? Will they make him laugh?_ For once, Theon found himself wishing Jon was with them.

But Theon had to admit to himself that some space might do them good. He and Robb had been careless. Maybe some time apart would help them come to their senses.

In truth, the separation helped him little in that regard. During his voyage to Pyke, as he bedded the captain's daughter, he often found himself thinking of Robb— his strong, shapely arms, the grooves marking the muscles of his stomach, the reddish stubble that grew along his sharp jawline. When he caught himself, he'd become angry and fuck her harder. She was a wisp of a girl with small tits, but he liked how easily he overpowered her. She begged him to take her as his salt wife, which made him laugh.

After he was finished with her, he liked to climb from the captain's quarters, lean against the railings, and simply take in the sound of the waves lapping at the sides of the galley and the feeling of the sea breeze tousling his hair. It felt good to have a deck beneath his feet. It had been so long. The salty air tasted sweet.

Had he known what would happen after he docked, he may have asked the captain to turn his ship around and make haste for the mainland.

None of it was fair, he thought as he lay awake on one of his first nights back home. All he had wanted was to help Robb and his family both, to help his best friend win his war and to restore house Greyjoy to glory. Why was his father making it so difficult? Even if his father disagreed with his plan, shouldn't he at least be happy to see his only surviving son home again after ten years? He should be proud. His son had fought beside a king, given council to a king, even lain with one, though Balon must never learn of that bit. Instead, all Theon had been met with was scorn from his father and mockery from his sister, and his mother hadn't even bothered to come from Harlaw to see him.

Theon lay awake many a night in his cold quarters, sick with disappointment, or seething with rage, or wishing he had Robb lying beside him to keep him warm, to kiss him, to want him. No, he mustn't think of Robb that way, not in his father's castle. If he stayed, Theon could rid himself of the stain of what he and Robb had done. He could reave and rape and take as many salt wives as he pleased. But much as Theon tried to push thoughts of Robb away, they snuck into his sleep, on the few nights he slept long enough to dream. And the sweetest dream was the night they'd shared at Riverrun. He dreamt of it so often he sometimes wondered if he had imagined it. But what was more real than those strong arms holding him tightly, those wine-flushed cheeks, the smell of his breath and how he'd tasted of Arbor red?

But if he went back to Robb, he would lose it all. His family would disown him, and he could never return to Pyke again. The Seastone chair, his inheritance, all of it would be lost. Who was he then, if not a Greyjoy? If he returned to Robb, what was left for him? Would Robb need a master of ships someday when he ruled as king? Would he grant Theon a holdfast as a reward for his service? What was one holdfast compared to the Iron Islands? What was some grim castle in the North when he could someday be a king if he fought for his father?

 _Unless my father passes his title to Yara_ , Theon thought one night as he crouched before a hearth fire that failed to warm him. The Ironborn would never take a woman for their leader, Theon assured himself, but doubt engulfed him. His father adored Yara, and men twice her age seemed to admire her, while treating Theon with cool indifference at best. _I can stay and be a servant to my father and Yara, or I can go and be a servant to Robb_ , he thought bitterly.

Theon felt he had no choice at all. _If I refuse to fight for either side, I lose them both._ He couldn't send warning to Robb from Pyke; his father was not foolish enough to allow him a raven. He also would not be allowed to leave Pyke unsupervised, now that he knew of his father's plans. _It's as if I am a prisoner even here_. The thought made Theon laugh. If the gods existed, they were wicked beasts who fancied themselves clever.

The thought of helping his father take the north appealed to Theon more than he cared to admit. How sweet it would be to take from the family that had taken so much from him. He imagined himself sitting in the Lord's chair at Winterfell. He could roam its halls and go hunting in the wolfswood whenever he pleased. He could shout commands to men in the courtyard, and they would obey. He could clean blood from his blade in the godswood, by that little pool beneath the heart tree.

The pool made him think of Robb, and suddenly Theon felt ashamed. _I have sworn my sword to him. I have called him my king._ Theon thought. _I should never have done that_. He could not fight against the King in the North without being named a traitor and a turncloak until the end of his days.

But even if by some miracle he found a way to slip back to the mainland and return to Robb, Theon knew he would still be named a turncloak for forsaking his family. And even if he managed to warn Robb of his father's attack in time, many of Robb's bannermen would still call for his head. The very reason he was taken hostage all those years before was to prevent such an attack from happening. But Robb would never…Robb could never…vicious doubt crawled beneath his skin. Robb was King in the North now— if he loved duty half so much as his father did he might feel compelled to follow through with Theon's execution. But it hadn't been Robb who fought at Pyke, it hadn't been Robb who had taken Theon hostage. Both Robert Baratheon and Ned Stark were dead now, surely Theon's wardship died with them. Theon remembered the boy who was fast friends with him in Winterfell, the boy who had reached to help him up when he fell in the training yard though Theon had not done the same for him, the boy who had laughed at his japes when they rode together and returned his smiles, the boy who had held him when he cried. But Robb was more than that boy now; he was a king. Theon remembered how self-righteous he could be sometimes, how proud. How he had yelled at Theon the day he saved Bran's life in the Wolfswood. How his jaw would set, his eyes would narrow in disapproval, and his voice would turn to ice.

Suddenly, Theon recalled the night he asked Robb for leave to sail home, how their breaths had frosted in chill of the late summer dusk. _He trusted me, when no one else would._

"Now and always," Robb had said in the great hall of Riverrun the night he was crowned, his solemn face illuminated by candlelight. He had meant every word.

Theon shivered. He knew what he must do. Even if he could not escape back to the mainland, he had to try. Robb was the quiet ire of a winter storm and Theon all the rage of the churning sea, yet somehow they needed one another. They leaned on each other.


	5. Part V: The Smell of the Sea

**PART V: The Smell of the Sea**

He road east, until the smell of the sea grew stale in the air.

After all those years Theon had finally come home. He'd dreamt of it so often his bones ached. He had been with his family again, had tasted what it was like to be Ironborn once more. Then he'd thrown it all away, scattered his dreams to the wind— and for what?

The Starks could never be his family, not truly. And his own— had they ever loved him, or had he made that part up? Had he dreamt them sweeter and warmer and kinder on his worst days in Winterfell? He remembered Rodrik and Maron's harsh blows, their even harsher words. But his father had surely loved him, once, hadn't he? And his mother…with a pang Theon realized that he hadn't even gotten to see her and probably never would again.

Landlocked, Theon had seldom felt so alone. It did not help that his Mallister escort had little to say to him. At least on way to Seaguard he'd had Patrek Mallister for company. Despite their families' deep-seated rivalries, they had made fast friends. Patrek was easygoing and quick to laugh, unlike these haughty guardsmen who hardly spoke to him. Theon would have preferred to have ridden alone, but he'd docked at Seagard and went straight to the castle to get his raven off, giving up any hope of riding off by himself.

"What tidings of His Grace?" had been his first question upon being permitted entry to the castle— he'd had little news of Robb during his stay at Pyke and didn't even know where he was making camp.

Theon had been relieved to hear that Robb had won several key victories in the west and was marching for Riverrun. Theon had been given food and drink and a place to sleep inside the castle walls, but he was no fool. He could tell no one trusted him. He knew his escort to Riverrun hadn't been ordered out of kindness alone.

Theon only hoped he'd gotten his message off to Robb in time. If his father's men took Moat Cailin before Robb could reinforce the defenses there, he could lose the entire North.

Theon had spent more time at Pyke than he'd have liked. It was what he had to do. First, there had been the matter of deciding what action to take. Cold, sleepless nights in his chambers, wrestling with the worst parts of himself. He would tell no one of those nights, not even Robb. _Especially_ not Robb. Once he'd decided to leave Pyke, he had to act carefully. He'd played the part of the loyal son, convincing his father that he wanted to help him take the North, that it would be vengeance for his years as a prisoner there. He'd let his uncle Aeron bless him before all of his Drowned Men, his father, and his sister. He'd thrown axes with his sister and her men. He'd walked the deck of his new ship and assembled a crew of his own.

And then he'd left. Theon had to wait for the right opportunity to slip away. He sailed _The Sea Bitch_ to Harlaw on what he'd told his father was a trip to visit his mother. Upon docking at Harlaw, he scouted the harbor for fast merchant ships, ships that didn't belong to his father's men. He paid for a night in an inn so that he may ride up to the castle fresh the following morning. Then he slipped away in the night on a small trading galley, having convinced its captain— with no small amount of gold— to make haste for the mainland.

 _I may be riding headlong to my own death_ , Theon thought glumly as he and the men from Seaguard worked their way through the riverlands. A question gnawed at him the whole journey. It echoed in his mount's plodding footfalls, derisive and cruel. _For what, for what, for what?_ It carried on the breeze that stirred the browning trees, hummed low with every rumbling stream.

Had it all been for chains again, iron or invisible? For the feel of a friend's sword pressed to his neck? Theon shivered. For love?

 _What blind bloody fools we are, all of us,_ he thought. _The things we do for love._

It didn't matter that Robb could never love him, not in the way he perhaps wanted to. Robb was his closest friend, his brother, bound in blood if not by blood. Theon would die for him, if need be— on the battle field, or beneath his blade.

Riverrun loomed on the horizon, dark and foreboding against a pale sky, silver with mist. Not long after the castle came within sight, they were intercepted by Tully forces to be escorted the rest of the way in. With every bridge they crossed, Theon felt the knots in his gut tightening.

When they arrived at the castle, Theon found himself shivering, though not for lack of warmth. Two sentries argued over what should be done with him, until a third came over to remind them that he was to be brought to King Robb immediately upon his arrival, according to direct orders from His Grace.

At least the urgency he was being accorded was flattering.

By the time they reached Robb's chambers, Theon's heart was in his throat. A lifetime passed between the moment his escort rapped on the door and when it flew open.

"Theon."

Robb's face lit up. But it was not the same face Theon remembered, the face he'd loved so well— not quite. The months since Theon had last seen him had left Robb hard and lean. The war had leeched all the softness from his face; his jaw was sharper, his cheeks hollower, his eyes colder. He looked tired. But when he saw Theon, he smiled.

That was a good sign, Theon knew, yet he could not bring himself to relax.

"Come in," Robb beckoned, still smiling.

One of the guards seized Theon by the arm and started to move with him.

"That won't be necessary," said Robb. "You two may wait in the hall."

The guards eyed each other uneasily.

"Your Grace," the other began, but Robb cut him off.

"You will wait in the hall," he said curtly. "I will send for you if you are needed."

The first guard hesitated before turning to Theon.

"Your weapons," he said.

Theon met eyes with Robb. _Really?_

Robb's look was apologetic.

Theon handed his longbow over to the guards, hoping he'd get it back. They stripped him of his sword and daggers, checked his pockets. Theon stared the entire time at Robb, who scratched his nose uncomfortably.

Theon could not bear all the waiting. The guards jangled his belongings as they strode from the room, followed by a dark-haired serving girl.

"Your Grace. Lord Greyjoy," she said before shutting the door behind her.

The moment they were alone Robb's shoulders dropped, as if some great weight had been lifted from them.

"Wine?" he asked, reaching for a flagon.

Theon wondered if Robb's offer meant he was an honored guest, protected by guest right.

"No," said Theon. If he told himself he could wash his nerves away with drink, he'd be a bloody fool.

Robb looked confused. Theon wasn't one to refuse a good vintage.

"You'd been gone so long," said Robb, "I'd begun to—

"Are you going to kill me?" Theon blurted.

Robb's lips parted, and his mouth hung open. Something stirred behind his eyes, but for once, Theon could not place it. Was it bewilderment? Anger? Shame?

Theon could hold his gaze no longer. He turned his head away from Robb, afraid of what he might say, afraid of the hot tears welling in his eyes, blurring his vision.

Robb shook him gently by the shoulders. "Look at me," he said. He shook a little more firmly when Theon did not look up. "Look at me! I've known you to be a great many things, Theon Greyjoy, but I've never known you to be stupid."

Theon's heart leapt.

"Did you really believe I would…do that?" Robb asked. "You were never my hostage."

Relief washed over Theon like a rising tide. He found himself falling into Robb's embrace, his familiar warmth, the smell of him. He let his tears roll, sniffed up his shame.

When Robb let him go, Theon wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his cloak and sank into the chair behind him. He felt exhausted. Robb poured him some wine, and he accepted it gladly.

"Some of the men are calling for my head, I have no doubt," said Theon. He took a healthy swallow from his glass.

Robb took a seat and sighed.

"I will not deny it." He took a long, slow drink.

"And what have you told them, if anything?"

Robb looked up at him. "I told them that you were taken as hostage as payment for your father's rebellion against the Iron Throne, a power we no longer hold to, as the free and independent kingdomof the North. And that the men responsible for your wardship— my father, Robert Baratheon— are dead. I told them that you are not, and never were, my hostage. You crossed your own family to come back to us and fed us information about their plants to capture the North. You are trustworthy, and likewise, you'd make a poor hostage for your family's current crimes, as you betrayed them. I told them that you fought nobly for our cause in the Whispering Wood. That you swore your sword to me the night I was crowned and named me brother that day as well. Would they have me be a kinslayer? Does a good king repay those who risk their lives and their names and their honor for him with death at his hands? No. You are my trusted battle companion and closest friend. I told them that no man should call for your head again if he wishes to keep his own on his shoulders."

Theon could not bring himself to speak. He felt a rush of things at once— gratitude, guilt, affection. _I don't deserve him_.

Finally, words found him.

"And how did they take it?" he asked.

"Well, for the most part," said Robb. "But there will be some lingering resentment. That is why I'm having you quarter inside the castle, just down the hall from me."

Theon noticed Robb's glance fall away from him as he continued to speak.

"I have also ordered guards outside your door after sundown. They will—

"I'm to be guarded?" Theon cut in. Heat crept to his face in a rush of fear and anger.

"For your own protection," said Robb, his face mingled concern and apology.

"And to ensure that I don't escape or betray you," said Theon.

Robb looked hurt. "I know you wouldn't do that."

A pang of guilt coursed through Theon. _I almost did._

He knew the other reason for the guards outside his door, knew it from the moment Robb mentioned it, yet when the fear flooded in he'd lashed out. It was that old, ever-present feeling of being trapped, for his own good, of course, his captors always insisted. _My gilded cage_ , thought Theon, _its bars so familiar._

"You're just making it seem as though I'm held here, so the bannermen who still want to see my life's blood on your sword will be content," said Theon.

"And what's the harm in giving them that illusion?" asked Robb. "We're all better for it. They see me as prudent, you have protection, and I will sleep easier. I'm telling no one that you're my hostage or that you're to be held here. You are just to be guarded. Men from mine own personal guard. _Select_ men from my personal guard. Men I can trust."

"You should be able to trust all the men in your personal guard with your life," said Theon.

"Oh I do," said Robb. "But I don't trust all of them with yours."

Robb was a more clever ruler than he got credit for, Theon knew. He'd go down in the histories as brave and good, but would he be remembered for the cunning that inspired the Whispering Wood? Or how he managed to keep peace amongst his men even in the face of contention, in times such as these with Theon's return, or when the Greatjon bared steel against him?

 _He is so much more than his father ever was_. Yet the venerable Ned Stark received endless praise and fond commemoration, despite his mistakes. _They say the North remembers,_ thought Theon, _but it has forgotten all his flaws._ Theon himself sure hadn't. He remembered the cold, dark man who'd walked him from his father's hall and loaded him onto a ship like some fragile cargo, cargo he was none too pleased to be carrying. He remembered the man who made him fetch his massive sword and watch as he used it to behead countless men. He remembered the streams of blood in the snow.

Theon Greyjoy could not forget such things if he tried.

"Your family," said Robb, breaking the long silence. He made it sound half a question.

Theon took a long drink.

"What about them?" he asked.

"They didn't listen to you," Robb said with disbelief. "You hadn't seen them in years, and they didn't listen to you."

"Exactly," spat Theon. "I hadn't seen them in years. I had forgotten how truly nasty they were." Suddenly the words came spilling out of him. "Nobody came to meet me when I docked. My sister humiliated me in front of her men. My father he…he was disgusted with what I'd become. I'd forgotten the old way, forgotten what it was to be Ironborn. But I thought…I thought he'd be glad to see me. Or…proud at least that I was a seasoned warrior, the companion of a king. But no, he treated me like horse shit. Always has."

"I'm sorry," said Robb, reaching to touch Theon's arm.

"But still," Theon continued. "They're my family, and I betrayed them. I made my choice, and now I can never go back."

"Thank you," said Robb. He gave Theon's arm a squeeze. "For all you've done for me. All you've given up."

Theon swallowed, nodded.

"When the war is over, you will be rewarded amply for your sacrifice," said Robb. "I'll find a seat for you. I promise. And if I have to fight the Ironborn out of my kingdom, perhaps the Islands will be in want of a new lord. A lord who will never be hostile to my cause. It may be that you will earn your inheritance after all. But there's no way to know now which way the winds will blow for us."

Theon nodded. _The winds,_ he thought. _Grey Wind, Black Wind. Words are wind, but not Robb's_. For the first time since his stay at Pyke, Theon felt hopeful.

Yet Robb seemed troubled, still.

"I heard news of Ironborn raiding northern shores a few days before I heard from you," he said. "You'd been gone so long, I thought…"

Robb trailed off, and Theon felt the urge to finish for him. _That I would betray you?_ he could've said. _I would never think of it_ , he could've lied. But shame swallowed him.

"I'm going to marry her," Robb blurted, looking stricken.

"The Frey girl, I know," said Theon.

"No."

"No? What do you mean?"

"Talisa," said Robb. "I'm going to marry Talisa."

"What?" Theon asked. "Who in seven fucking hells is _Talisa?_ "

"She treats the wounded men," said Robb. "She was in here, before. She spoke to you."

Suddenly, Theon recalled the girl who'd left Robb's chambers as he'd entered. He'd been too nervous to note her face; all he remembered was a head of dark hair.

" _Her?"_ said Theon, incredulous. "That— that serving wench?"

Robb reddened.

"She's not a serving wench," he said "She treats the wounded men, and she's of noble birth."

"If her house is from the westerlands or the Reach, she could be a spy," said Theon. All of this left a bad taste in his mouth.

"House Maegyr is of Volantis," said Robb.

"Volantis?" said Theon. "Robb, please tell me this is some stupid jape."

"It's not a jape," Robb said. "I love her."

 _As if that matters_ , thought Theon. He spun from shock. Anger burned through him. He thought of the Robb's oath to the Freys. _As if love matters in the game of thrones_. He thought of the night Robb was crowned. _As if love matters to you_.

"Love her?" Theon scoffed. "And how long have you known her, pray? A few months?"

Robb sprang from his chair and turned away.

"You don't understand," he said.

"Oh, I understand more of love than you think," Theon snapped.

Robb wheeled around.

"You think all of this is about _you_?" he cried.

Robb's words stung more than Theon anticipated. He stood there, jaw working furiously, lost for words.

"You were gone," Robb continued. "I hadn't heard from you. I didn't know if you'd been captured or if you'd been killed or if you'd turned on me. My own mother…" his voice broke. "My own mother turned on me. The Lannisters have my sisters, my brothers are by themselves in Winterfell, which I've left without adequate protection and which may soon face Ironborn assault. I was alone. I was afraid. And she was strong; she helped me." He sucked in a sharp breath. "I lay with her."

"So?" Theon asked.

"You see," said Robb. "I have to marry her."

 _You never spoke of marrying me_ , Theon wanted to say. Instead, he just laughed. He laughed so hard that his belly grew sore and his eyes brimmed with tears.

"What?" said Robb, furious.

"That's it?" asked Theon, wiping his eyes. "You lay with her, so now you have to marry her?"

"I love her," Robb said. "And what if I father a child by her?"

"Did you spill your seed inside her?" Theon asked. "If you did you're a fool, and if you didn't you have nothing to worry about,"

"I did," Robb admitted.

"Just once, and you're not like to get her with child."

Robb blushed. "It was more than once."

" _More than_ —?" spluttered Theon. "Seven hells, Robb, what were you thinking!"

Robb strode to his windowsill and leaned against it, as if his own weight were too much to bear.

Theon felt hurt and angry and betrayed and scared. Mostly, he felt confused. Settling down with some foreign slut was not like the Robb Theon knew. No, the King in the North was honorable and noble. He would keep his word. He outsmarted seasoned military commanders on the battlefield. He had lain beside Theon, in the very bed that stood before them now, had looked into his eyes and kissed him.

He needed help.

"I know this isn't about me," said Theon, swallowing his hurt. "It never was. It is about your oath to the Freys. Your word as a king should mean something."

"But I broke my word," said Robb. "I lay with another woman. I need to do what is right by her and be honest to Lord Frey and his daughters."

"Gods, Robb, you didn't promise the Freys you'd never fuck another woman."

"I cannot imagine Lord Walder taking that news warmly," said Robb.

"I cannot imagine Lord Walder— who is on, what? His eighth child bride— giving two shits about whom you've fucked," said Theon. "He just wants his daughter to be queen."

"And if Talisa bears my child?" asked Robb.

"Deny it was yours."

Robb looked appalled. "I cannot—

"Fine," said Theon. "Be honest then. But countless kings and lords and noblemen have bastards. It is nothing to fret about."

"Nothing to fret about?" Robb repeated, baffled. "I will not do to my child what my parents did to Jon."

Theon rolled his eyes.

"Oh, please. Jon's ceaseless whining has spoiled you," he said. "Most bastards aren't raised in castles. Most bastards don't receive training at arms and a proper education. Most bastards are starved or beaten or left to the streets. If she has your child, just give her enough coin to see that she and the babe have a comfortable life. That would be far more than most do for their natural children."

While he waited for Robb to reply, Theon poured himself another glass of wine and drained it in three long swallows. He was filling his cup again when Robb spoke. His voice was cold.

"Forgive me, Lord Greyjoy. You must be weary from your travels. There is hot supper and fresh bedding in your quarters down the hall. My guards will escort you there."

" _Your Grace_ ," said Theon, feigning a bow before making for the door.

Theon was thankful for the full flagon of wine waiting for him in his quarters. He drank deep and long. Soon, sleep found him, but peace did not. He dreamt of a bleeding sky, a storm that tore the sea apart. He was drowning, slipping beneath the waves and struggling above them, by turns gasping in hot air and lungfulls of saltwater. Darkness swallowed the sky, and he didn't know which way was up or down. He could only cling to the wreckage of his ship and pray like he never had before.

At dawn he stumbled, groggy, to the great hall. He took his hunk of bread and horn of ale to the end of a long table to break his fast alone. He had hardly started eating when he noticed a woman striding toward him. He heard a man next to him mutter, "the king's foreign whore."

 _Seven hells, not you,_ thought Theon.

She was beautiful, he had to admit. Slender but shapely. Smooth olive skin, big brown eyes, and a thick curtain of dark hair.

 _And a pretty face_ , he thought sourly.

"Lord Greyjoy," Talisa Maegyr said when she reached him. "Do you mind if I sit?"

Theon shook his head and tore into his loaf.

"Thank you," she said. "I'm Talisa Maegyr, I—"

"I know," Theon cut her off.

Talisa pursed her lips but refrained from calling Theon out on his lack of courtesy. He was grateful for that, and for the few moments of silence his rudeness gained them.

"I just came from the camp," Talisa said. Her hair was wind-tousled, and her cheeks had a lovely flush. "It's far colder here than where I'm from."

"Pentos?"

"Volantis."

"Right." Theon ripped another mouthful from his loaf.

"Does it get cold where you're from, the Iron Islands?" Talisa asked politely.

"'sn't matter," Theon said through his bread. He swallowed. "I can't go back."

"I'm sorry," said Talisa.

"It's fine."

Another silence swept over them.

"His Grace speaks most highly of you," said Talisa.

Theon wondered where she was going with this.

"He missed you, you know," she continued.

"Did he, now?"

"Yes," said Talisa. "Very much, I believe."

Theon wondered how much she knew about him and Robb.

"That's touching to hear," he said carefully.

"His men love him," Talisa said.

"Aye," Theon agreed. "And why shouldn't they?"

"He's a great leader, a great king," said Talisa. She leaned a little closer to him. "But they love him as their king, not as a boyhood friend or a brother."

Theon looked up from the table to meet her eyes, chewing slowly on his bread and her words.

"He needs you," Talisa said, touching he wrist.

Theon felt like jerking his arm away, but he stopped himself.

"I had best make my rounds," said Talisa, getting up from the table. "Lord Greyjoy."

 _I am not certain it's 'Lord Greyjoy' anymore_ , thought Theon as he watched her leave the hall.

Not long after he dove back into his bread, Lady Catelyn approached him.

 _Gods, can a man not break his fast unmolested?_

"Theon," said Catelyn. "I am glad to see you have arrived safely from your travels."

"Lady Stark," said Theon, bowing his head.

"I presume you know of Robb's intentions to marry Lady Talisa?"

"Yes, my lady. His Grace told me last night."

Lady Catelyn clutched his arm. Hard.

 _Why is everyone touching me today?_ Theon wondered, irritated. _Am I truly so irresistible?_

"You have to help him," she said. "Convince him not to do so. He must uphold his oath to Walder Frey."

"I tried to tell him it was folly last night," said Theon. "He would not have it."

"Try again," said Catelyn. "He will not hear it from me. But you...he admires you, Theon. He'll listen to you."

Lady Catelyn had never been warm to him, but in that moment her eyes were soft, scared. Pleading.

"I will try again, my lady," Theon promised. "But I believe that Robb— His Grace has made up his mind on this matter."

Catelyn sighed. "I hope Robb comes to his senses. I hope you are wrong."

"I hope so too," Theon said before she departed.

Robb was not free to speak alone until midday. Theon found him pacing in his quarters.

"I came to apologize for the way I acted last night," said Theon. "My exhaustion from my travels made me irritable and rude."

Robb halted.

"I am sorry, too, for the way I treated you," he said.

Theon stepped toward him. "Still, I urge you not to go forward with your marriage to Lady Talisa. You made a sacred oath to one of your principal allies. Your success in the war may very well ride on his provision of troops to your cause. The safety of your people and your family may ride upon it as well. Surely that's more important than a shred of honor or a promise whispered to a lover in a moment of passion?"

"Theon, I—

"Keep her for your lover, for all I care," Theon continued, though the thought that Robb chose Talisa still pained him. "Just marry the Frey girl. Keep your allies happy, your army intact, and your family safe."

"And live a life of dishonesty?"

"Dishonesty?" Theon echoed. "Tell me, Robb, does Talisa know about us? About what we did?"

Robb cast his eyes downward, shook his head.

"You say you love her," said Theon, "yet you don't think she deserves to know that?"

Anger flashed in Robb's eyes. Then, he rubbed them and sighed, his whole body wilting. For a moment, he looked like the boy he was. A boy who was scared and lost and tired. A boy with sharp jowls and bagged eyes and a sneak of silver in his hair, just above his brow. That hadn't been there, the last time Theon had seen him.

"Theon," Robb said, clapping his friend on the shoulder. "After everything that's happened, I'm glad you're back."

Theon's heart skipped a beat.

 _Am I?_


End file.
